This is ‘Cindy’ magazine. What might one glean of the storyline from the cover? One sees a young buxom gal, no doubt the aforementioned Cindy, engaged in a high-spirited telephone conversation with an unknown party called simply, “Goldie.” It may be that Goldie is her Doctor, or her Dentist, or her Optometrist—we will never, ever know. Cindy’s snippet of dialogue is something like, “Nevermind Goldie! Talk your ass off!” Which leads one toward the feeling that Goldie may be a great one for talking and hence a close friend and maybe someone in a medical profession, likely foreign-born.
To Cindy’s right sits a young man who carries a most startled and worried expression. One may assume that he has been waiting his turn to speak to Goldie and is alarmed to hear that Cindy has decided to further monopolize the call. Or perhaps he had already spoken to Goldie briefly, turned the phone over to Cindy with a promise of just a “quick hello” and now sits on this lumpy green couch, in a beleaguered state, waiting and waiting for a chance to ask Goldie for advice regarding his boils or his squint or his limp or his withered gums or his wheeze or his angry rash or the headaches and the voices and the blackouts. Waiting and waiting. We will never know this either.
It’s just possible that this happens all the time. The young man is a hypochondriac; Cindy is well aware of this and refuses to waste Goldie’s time with his “phantom shooting eye-pains”, or “black-mist sneezing fits.” Goldie may have even forbidden Cindy from putting the young man on the phone calling him crude names and intimating knowledge of long rumored physical short-comings. We don’t know.
Lastly, and this seems very likely; the young man is awaiting a prognosis from Goldie, but nerves got the better of him and Cindy had to take the call. He sits in dread waiting for the diagnosis. Will he have time left to learn the Inuit throat singing and seal hunting and lacrosse? But Cindy drags it out. Perhaps she is just being kind. Or stalling for time..trying to think of a way to tell him. We will never know.